


So Much For My Happy Ending

by eratothemuse



Series: Prisoners (2013) Imagines [2]
Category: Prisoners (2013)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Flashbacks, Language, Time Skips, a little fluff, blurbs, im not a cop so probably incorrect cop jargon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 20:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20841515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratothemuse/pseuds/eratothemuse
Summary: A series of blurbs that tell the story of how and why Detective Loki doesn’t have a partner.(Imagine being the reason Detective Loki doesn’t have a partner.)





	So Much For My Happy Ending

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Prisoners (2013) Imagines (SFW & NSFW)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20841464) by [eratothemuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratothemuse/pseuds/eratothemuse). 

> A/N: Uhm? My hand slipped?? And I’m crying??? I’m sorry????

##  ** _So Much For My Happy Ending_ **

Gif source: [1](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/188054000792) | [2](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/188053904832/dailygyllenhaals-jake-gyllenhaal-as-detective) | [3](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/188054016317/dailygyllenhaals-prisoners-2013)

* * *

_"_ _No.”_

“No?” Captain O’Malley scoffs, and David feels his eye tick with the annoyance of it all. “You need a partner, Loki. Fucks sake, just take Carter, or Wedge! Hell, take anyone with you; I don’t care!”

“All due respect, go fuck yourself, Captain,” David huffs, not flinching when the older man slams his hand against the desk in front of him, before pointing angrily at him.

“Fuck you! I’m gonna’ let that slide this once, considering what happened, but it’s been a year, Loki! You know damn well you’re gonna’ have to partner up again someday,” O’Malley’s voice softens, but only slightly, as he continues. “Look. losing her was hard on the whole department, but I can’t have you runnin’ around without having some kinda’ backup—”

Loki shakes his head, the collar of his shirt feeling a bit too tight as he swallows, mind racing with memories he’d rather forget, as he turns to leave the office he hadn’t wanted to enter in the first place, “I _don’t _need a partner, Captain.”

_Had it really been a year ago?_

**~**

“I don’t need a partner, Captain,” David spoke behind a mouthful of one of the donuts that Sandy from dispatch had left in the break room. His desk was a crime scene in itself, files and folders scattered in the aggressive beginnings of a new investigation. He chases the bite of what had quickly become sugary mush with his coffee, bitter and hot as it slicks down his throat, rasping his voice when he adds, “Especially not some kid.”

“I’m sorry, did that sound like a fuckin’ request, Loki?” O’Malley rolls his eyes, “You’ve got a new partner, starting today, and I expect you to show her the ropes.”

“Don’t got much of a choice,” he shoots back, setting his coffee on one of the rare clean spaces of his desk, before O’Malley nods in authoritative satisfaction.

“You don’t,” his captain was smiling, annoying David, but they both knew there was nothing to be done about it. He had managed to get out of partnering up for this long solely due to the odd number of detectives and officers, and this was the remedying of that issue in the department.

David leans back in his chair as O’Malley abandons him, jaw clenched as he tries to focus on the photos that peeked from one of the folders. His jaw ticks. He can’t focus. Black dress pants come into his peripheral, but he pays it little attention until a soft clearing of the throat can be heard to his left.

“Detective Loki?”

When he lays eyes on you for the first time, he can’t help but notice how skittish you looked. Like you didn’t want to bother him. He takes a sip of his coffee, just to make you wait. Just to see how you reacted.

You shift on your feet, offering an awkward chuckle, before introducing yourself, “I believe we’re assigned to be partners.” You offered him your hand to shake, as he set his coffee back down. “It’s nice to meet you, Detective.”

You looked like a damn teenager, he thought.

“Loki,” he takes your small hand with his larger one, pleasantly surprised at the firmness of your grip, before releasing it.

“Huh?”

“Just, call me Loki.”

**~**

Your ice broke far sooner than his did. At the end of the first week, he had read you like an open book, but that hadn’t been too hard with how easily you opened up in the passenger seat of his car. You talked, while he mostly listened, and before he knew it, you had slipped under his skin.

You were bright eyed and bushy tailed and everything that he wasn’t. You freely told him about the house you grew up in and what you did on your time off. You invited him to drinks after work and dinners that he would refuse, but admittedly you were wearing him down.

Then, one day you look at him, mouth half-full of a bite of the burger you’d made him run through the drive-thru and get before you started this stake out, finger dancing briefly along the collar of his shirt, skin barely grazing his neck, “So, do you wear this up so tight because of the policy?”

David pulls from your touch, far more astonished by it than you seemed to be. You had touched him like it was the most natural thing to do, like you were close friends, not thinking a second thought about it before you reached over and did it. His hand landed on his collar, right where your fingers had once brushed, and he was pretty damn sure that he was fucking blushing just a little bit.

“What?” he asks, as you sip the large drink, clearly unaware of his shock.

“The collar,” you point, before taking another sip, “Do you button it all the way because of the dress policy regarding tattoos?” His hand pulls his collar up somewhat, right where his neck tattoo had peeked out, as he looks back to the house he was supposed to be watching. A frown etches onto his face as a grin blossoms on your own, “Because if it is, I think it’s pretty obvious you have tattoos already, Loki. I mean, you got ‘em on your knuckles, so you’d have to wear gloves, too—”

“I don’t care about the fuckin’ policy,” Loki huffs.

“Oh, so it’s for fashion, then?” you tease, catching the side of a glance that sends you giggling in the seat beside him. The way you lean over, to nudge his bicep slightly, has him cracking a smile, “You a fashionista, Loki?”

“Yeah, that’s it. It’s for the fashion,” he throws back, sarcasm lacing his tone, but you only grin wider at him, spotting the curve of his lips as he tugs his beanie down snugly on his head.

“Nah, see, I don’t think you are. Don’t you wanna’ know how I deduced that you’re not a fashionista, Loki?” you wiggle your brows at him, and he rolls his eyes hard.

“I don’t.”

“Don’t you want to hear my stunning detective work?”

“Really, no.”

“Here it is,” you breathe deeply, catching his attention as you lean towards him, like you were about to share a secret that only he could hear. He catches himself leaning forward slightly, only to get poked in the chest as you grin wickedly, “You don’t own a single tie, do ya’, Loki?” Leaning back in your seat, you shrug as if you had solved it, “Case. Closed.”

He groans, while you snort, but his smile lingers, “I own a _fucking_ tie.”

**~**

His ice melted, slowly, but with the inevitability of an iceberg in the ocean. About four months in, he finally agreed to dinner after a rough shift that had nearly ended in you getting a black eye, and him getting stabbed in a strip club parking lot.

The Waffle House was like a yellow beacon of hope in the hazy fog of what was technically the early morning, and Loki collapsed into the hard booth much like you did.

“It’s fuckin’ cold,” you grumble across from him, sniffing harshly. The beginning of an oncoming cold, if the Mucinex that rested in his backseat was anything to go by.

His eye ticks as he grabs a menu, despite already knowing what he wanted to eat, “You should know by now to bring a jacket with you.”

“What are you, my mom?” you quip, and he shoots you a look. You stick your tongue out at him, and he frowns to hide how endearing he found you.

“I can’t believe I’m partners with a fuckin’ child,” he teases you right back, and you make a point of ignoring him when the waitress comes to take your order.

“Ya’ know,” you grin, eyes sliding to peer back at him when he tucks his menu back where it came from, “if you were a gentleman, you’d give me your parka.”

He chuckles, making a show of zipping his parka as you frown at him, “What makes you think I’m a gentleman, kid?” The waitress sits down your coffee. You take yours with too much sugar and creme, he’s come to memorize, as he sips at his own.

“Right,” you scoff, but there’s a joke behind the faux edge to your tone, “what was I thinking? Your coffee’s as black as your soul, Loki.”

“Why do you even order coffee?” he hides his smirk behind another sip, “It’s all just milk.”

The night goes on like that, as you pour over your waffle while he takes his eggs and bacon. Banter back and forth that almost makes him forget the ordeal of the shift before. He laughs more than he used to, he realizes, when you have him nearly in stitches at around two in the morning, half your meals gone and the diner nearly all to yourselves.

“Nuh-uh,” he snatches up the ticket, right as the waitress sets it down and he spots your hand reach for it, “I got it.” He’s fishing out his wallet as you protest, calling him all sorts of things that are laced with giggles.

“Yeah, well, I’m gettin’ the next one!” you challenge, downing the rest of the coffee you had the horror of realizing was cold by now, when he stands to pay the check at the front. You come up behind him, tugging up at your belt and teasing by his ear as he gets rung up, “What was that you said about not bein’ a gentleman, Loki?”

By the time he glances back at you, cheeks flushed and brows furrowed, you’re halfway out the door and on the way back to his car

When he drives you home, he doesn’t let himself admit it’s as close to a date as he’s had in months.

**~**

“There’s just one thing I can’t figure out,” David starts, and you look back at him from the investigation board with wide, curious eyes.

“Just one?” you point your thumb towards the board, “I gotta’ couple things I can’t figure out about this one. Like, why cut out the eyes? Is it just because the sick fuck doesn’t wan’t them to look at him, or is it like a kinky thing—”

“Not about that,” he stops you with a wave of his hand, before leaning forward in his chair and pointing at you, squeezing the bright pink stress ball you had given him as a joke gift at Christmas— it was surprisingly one of his favorite things he owned.

“What about then?”

“You— what’s a girl like you doin’ in the police?” you frown at him, while he justifies his question, “Just saying, you’re an optimist. You think the best in people; even after all the fucked up shit you’ve seen with me on our beat, you still do, I can tell. I can’t get it.”

“Aw, Loki, don’t tell me you’re sayin’ I’m a ray of sunshine in your dull, pessimist life?”

He leans back in his seat with a roll of his eyes, squeezing the stress ball until his knuckles went white, “Forget I asked—”

**~**

You don’t tell him the answer until seven months as his partner. It was a bad night, and another cop had been shot in a shootout with a suspect. You’d been pressing at the crimson of his chest, feeling the disgustingly sticky feeling of his blood covering your fingers even through the jacket you’d pushed to the wound. He had died on the street, like a dog, and Loki had to pull you off of him to get you to stop your frenzied compressions when the paramedics came.

He had driven you home in stunned silence, and when he walked you into your apartment, that was the first time he saw it.

A cat meowed at his feet, as you walked past it numbly, like you’d seen a ghost. His hand reached for your shoulder, and you turned easily to face him.

“Hey, kid,” he begins, low, as it didn’t feel quite right to speak louder than the soft murmur between you, “where’s your bathroom?”

You point him in the direction, and he takes you by the hand, dried blood sticking to it despite how many times you wiped it on your pants. You let him lead you there, and follow his instruction to sit on your sink’s counter, while he rummages through your things to retrieve a couple towels. The sound of running water accompanies his rummaging, and before you know it, he’s pressing the soft baby blue into your hands, water dripping down your fingertips as his own scrub you clean of the blood there with your rag.

“They’ll stain,” you manage to whisper, and he frowns in concentration at a particularly stubborn bit of crusted blood at your nail.

“I’ll get you new ones,” he smiles, forced and solely for your benefit, “You won’t mind if they’re hot pink, right?”

That gets a soft laugh from you, just a huff of one, really, but it was there, “I think white would be a better choice. Could bleach those fuckers when I gotta’ wipe blood off my hands.”

“I don’t know, the hot pink has character,” he tries to sound light, but it doesn’t. He wets the rag again, blood flowing with the water down the sink. Wringing it out, he drags it along your jaw, and your eyes meet his.

His hand stills at the turmoil there, and your voice cracks as you murmur, “He was aiming at me. The bastard, was aiming at me— Donahue has _kids_, Loki— It shoulda’ been—”

When your voice chokes, Loki finds himself grasping you at the nape of your parka, pulling you into his chest as his hand smooths between your shoulder blades, “Hey, don’t you fuckin’ _dare_, you hear me? Don’t you dare say it shoulda’ been you.” He hears the shudder of a breath that escapes along his shoulder, feels the heat of your breath along his collar, and knows that he’s breaking so many policies by doing this right now, but he can’t bring himself to fucking care. He already knows he’s in too deep.

“It woulda’ been, if Donahue hadn’t got in front of me,” you whisper, soft and broken, and Loki knows you’re crying, but he’s not going to acknowledge it, for either of your sakes.

“It wasn’t, though. It wasn’t,” his voice sounds, for the life of him, far more stable than he feels right now, as he feels himself twitch, smoothing his hand along your hair in a way far gentler than was necessary. He lets your fingertips grip into his shirt as the sound of your soft, shuddering breaths and the running water fills the room, until you let him go and pull back, wiping at your eyes like you were embarrassed to have him see you cry.

“Damn, now you’re all bloody. Why’d ya’ let me mess your nice shirt up,” you shoot at him through a sniffle and a forced smile, which he returns as best he can.

“Eh, I never liked this one much, anyway,” he tugs at the collar, lying through his teeth. “Collar’s too tight, can barely breathe sometimes in it.”

“Maybe if you didn’t button it all the way like a Catholic priest, you could fucking breathe,” your laugh is airy, the tease on your lips relaxing his shoulders and giving him the time to focus his attention on the rag in the sink instead of the feeling it sends rushing through him that really shouldn’t be there for his partner, or a girl as young as you.

“I don’t think the rags are gonna’ cut it, kid,” he sighs, admitting defeat at the messy sight of your stained clothing, but the blood no longer clings to your hands or jaw.

“Yeah,” you sigh sadly, looking down at yourself and splaying your fingers, picking at your nails where he hadn’t been able to completely get beneath. “I need a full shower, and I’m pretty sure this shirt’s history.”

“Well,” he nods, drawing out the word as he tucks his hands into his pockets, “I ought to leave you to it, then.”

Before he can leave, though, you call out to him softly, “Hey, Loki?”

“Yeah,” he dares to look back at you, despite his better judgement.

Your fingers grip the edge of the counter, on either side of your thighs, as you tilt your head at him, “You wanted to know why I became a cop, right?”

He nods, fingers stopping on the door frame, as he leans against it.

“My dad,” you swallow, clearly choked up by the thought. “He was a cop. Damn good one, too.” You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, “Til one day, he didn’t come home, y’know? His partner came by the house, and of course my mom knew straight away what had happened, but I was so young. Just standing at the door, I keep asking him, ‘Where’s Daddy? When’s he coming home? Is he hurt?’ And my mom’s so tore up, crying already, she can’t catch her breath long enough to tell me.”

David was quiet, listening as you look to the ceiling to dry the tears welling up in your eyes, before you level yourself and continue, “Well, his partner pulls me aside, and gets on my level. Tells me everything— how my dad’s not coming home, how a bad man killed him, and, you know, I think I knew right then that I wanted to try and stop that from happening to anyone else.” Your smile is bittersweet, as guilt reflects in your eyes, as easy a read as ever, “Guess I can’t even do that, though.”

He stands there for a beat, hesitation in his posture before he moves across the bathroom tile, guiding your eyes from it as his head dips. Consequences be damned.

His lips find your own, and you fit to each other like two pieces of the same broken puzzle. That’s the night he lets you find out what his tattoos really look like, and he finds out that you’re probably the thing he’s most scared of losing.

**~**

It’s when you’re laying on the couch with him, nine months into being his partner and about two months after becoming something _more_ than that, that you ask him about them. He knew it was coming, but he hadn’t expected it to be when he was right on the verge of sleep, as an extremely boring rendition of _Howard’s End_ played on the television— you had a thing for shit like that, he found out. Your hand traced the star at his neck, slipping down to the hand he had resting on his chest, alongside your chin.

Your fingers brush along his knuckles, and the symbols adorning his knuckles, “What do they mean?” For a moment, he thinks he had dreamt the question, somewhere between consciousness and sleep, but then you repeat the question, tacking on his name, which had become reserved for private moments like this, “David?”

When your lips brush his knuckles, he cracks open an eye, squinting down at you in the soft glow from the television, as you raise a brow at him, “Hm?”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” you give him your out, and he knows he can take it, but then you look at him with that soft, curious look you had easily realized could get just about anything out of him. “Just wondering.”

His knuckles curl against your lips, before he admits with a sigh, “They mean, I did some stupid shit when I was a kid.”

“Like what?” you give him a lopsided, playful grin, “Was it something scandalous? Ooh! Did you knock someone up?”

“No, thank God,” he groans, running his hand over his eyes to wake himself more before he continues. “I spent six years in Huntington Boys Home; ran with the wrong crowd back then. Landed me a couple of stints in juvie, before I got some sense and joined the force. Figured I was sick of wasting my life away.”

“Were you a gang leader?” you breathe against his lips lowly, still a bit of a tease in your tone. “Were you _dangerous_, David?”

“Oh, I was the kind of boy your mama woulda’ cried over if you brought home,” he growls against you, and tickles at your sides, forcing giggles to erupt from your chest as he tucks your body between his and the couch with a simple turn to his side.

“Too bad I didn’t meet you during my rebellious phase, I guess,” he hears you gasp as his lips trail down your neck.

“Mhm, too bad.”

**~**

He wants to take you on a proper date, he decides. Got the idea stuck in his head until it was all he could think about.

When he finally pitches it to you, you look back at him from where you were letting him push you on the grocery cart, your feet planted on the rail beneath as the weight of your groceries and his arms around you kept it from flipping. He already knows he’s in for it when you grin at him, that glint of mischief in his eyes something that he’d grown to know could only be followed by a tease.

“What? Like we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, now?”

His heart stammers in his chest, and he reaches for the packaged cheese, tossing it into the buggie while keeping his outward cool, “If that’s what you wanna’ be.”

When his blue eyes slip from the dairy to find your face again, he finds you peering at him in a sort of shocked stupor, before you bite your bottom lip, a smile beaming from beneath your overbite, “For real? You want to be?” He swallows, and knows that he should _not_ feel so nervous after all the things you’ve done together. You were doing this all out of order, but he can’t bring himself to regret a single minute of it. He can only bring himself to nod, waiting as his heart hammers embarrassingly loud in his ears— feeling like that stupid kid he once had been, way before he ever met you.

“Well, David,” you raise your nose in the air haughtily, “I’ll have you know that I’m not the kind of girl who puts out on the first date, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He cracks, grinning over at the meats as he finds he’d absentmindedly wheeled you towards them, absentminded tick causing his face to twitch slightly.

“What, you a three-date kinda’ girl?” he shoots back, reaching for the sliced turkey, before you point to a different brand.

You grin at him as he places it in your hand, “I guess you’ll just have to find out, won’t you, boyfriend?” He’s sure you can’t see how enamored with you he is, as you toss the turkey into your cart.

The thought flies through his head, before he can even stop it, but he doesn’t dare let it fall from his tongue.

_I love you._

**~**

The cat’s out of the bag when you both get called into O’Malley’s office. He’s frowning at the two of you, which is nothing new, but the way he shuts the door behind the two of you is.

“Now, I’m not the sort of man to reprimand two good detectives over rumors,” he begins, circling around the two of you to sit in his office chair, “but, I just want to make sure for myself.”

You glance at David, but his eyes remain trained on your captain. He looked bored, if anything else, poker face far too good to let anything else go, which is why the captain looks to you, with a frown that was all authority and reprimand.

“Is there something going on here that I need to be made aware about?” he stares solely at you, and David can tell you were starting to crack.

“Like what? What are you trying to say, Captain? Just come right out and fuckin’ say it,” he begins, drawing O’Malley’s attention and his glare as his twitch acts up again.

“I’m tryin’ to say, are you two screwing around?”

“I’m offended you would even—!”

“No—!” you squeak, but O’Malley doesn’t seem convinced.

O’Malley leans forward, folding his hands on his desk and silencing the two of you with the intensity of his stare, “Loki, you’re with Carter from now on.”

“What? No, Chief,” David snaps, poker face breaking, his jaw clenched in anger. “You don’t have any proof, and you’re just going to switch us up for a fuckin’ rumor?”

“If it’s just a fuckin’ rumor, why are you so mad about it, Loki?” O’Malley bites back. “Be glad I’m not writing you both up for fraternization!” He sighs, “Be glad I’m doing this, the both of you. It won’t be a problem if you’re not partners anymore, anyway.”

“You can’t just, change us up after all this time,” you try, but your voice is more like a plea than anything else, and O’Malley just looks at you with something akin to an apology.

“I can, and I am. You’re going to be partnered with Wedge. There isn’t a discussion to be had about this, and I think you both know that.”

Loki turns on his heel, ripping the door open with his annoyance, and making a straight line right for the stairs. His knuckles connect with the cement of the stairwell wall, anger radiating from him before he manages to compose himself.

How was _Wedge _going to watch your back like he could?

**~**

The call comes in when he’s sitting in a Taco Bell parking lot, Carter in his passenger seat and blasting an annoyingly loud rendition of _Beat It _by Michael Jackson, only it wasn’t Michael Jackson singing it. David almost sighs in relief at the excuse to turn down the fucking god-awful cover, but any relief is short lived as he hears the voice on the other end of the dispatch.

_“All units, all units, respond. Unit twelve-fifty currently engaged in a code eight. Repeat, code eight. Suspect armed and dangerous at residence. Ten-twenty-one Maple Street. All units, respond.”_

Carter sits up straight, an, “oh, shit,” huffing from his lips as other units respond to Sandy’s call.

David nearly rips the receiver from the radio, quickly responding, “Thirteen-forty, en route. E. T. A. ten minutes.” The wheels screech as his grip on the steering wheel tightens, Carter flipping the lights and siren on as he peels from the parking lot.

“Twelve-fifty, that’s—” Carter begins, and David nearly feels his heart jump to his throat as he confirms.

“Wedge’s cruiser.”

By the time he gets there, there are other cruisers, and S.W.A.T., as a suspect shoots from the windows of a house at the oncoming cars. David screeches to a stop, ducking his head and exiting the vehicle alongside the other cars for cover, weapon drawn.

“What the fuck happened?” he shouts as he makes it behind the S.W.A.T. car, finding O’Malley in a vest as he looks around for any sign of Wedge or you.

“Wedge called for backup, after shots were fired,” the look O’Malley levels him with has him weak in the knees, gripping onto his weapon as he leans on the truck. “S.W.A.T. just went around back, to engage and try to save the hostage.”

“Hostage,” David repeats, and O’Malley clenches his jaw.

“It’s (Y/N), Loki.”

**~**

Loki blinks up at the fluorescent lighting of the ceiling, feeling his eye tick as he hopes that maybe he’ll go blind if he stares there long enough. The soft meow of the cat, jumping up onto the table, breaks him from his intense stare, as he shovels another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

His hand runs along the fur of the cat’s back, and he decides he’s had enough for dinner tonight, after what the Captain had said about getting a new partner. His feet nudge the can of cat food as he passes it, suggesting that the cat grab a bite. It hops from the table and goes to sniff the food, before apparently deciding it didn’t have much of an appetite either.

He empties his cereal in the sink, washing the bowl, and abandoning it on the rack in his sink. His hands grip at the side of it, as he breathes slowly through his nose, shutting his eyes and trying his damned hardest not to cry again.

It wasn’t supposed to hurt so much, after all this time, but he had learned first hand that the pain never really did go away. You just learned to live with it.

“Come on,” he sighs down at the cat, as it rubs along his calves, before bending to scoop it up and scratch softly behind its ears, “let’s go to bed.”

He deposits it onto the bed as he pads into his bedroom. Lying down, he takes a deep breath, as the cat— your cat— settles against his thigh. The sheets had stopped smelling of you about four weeks after the funeral, but the cat— it never stopped smelling like you.

His hand dips to the nightstand, opening the drawer, if only to torture himself further, and pulled out the small film canister that you had teased him about still having, with all the digital cameras he could use, without knowing what was inside of it. He pops it open, dumping its contents into the palm of his hand, and feeling the cool metal of the band with the pad of his thumb.

He holds it up to his face, watching the small diamond catch in the light, before he tucks it back into the canister and shuts the drawer once again.

The hardest part, had been telling your mother that he never got to pop the question.

_No,_ David thinks, turning out the light,_ I don’t need another partner._


End file.
